


Sherlock Ficlets From Tumblr

by EntreNous



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Case Fic, Depression, Domestic Fluff, Hugs, Intergluteal Sex, Jealousy, Kid Fic, Kidnapping, Kink Meme, M/M, Minor Violence, Motorcycles, Obsessive Behaviour, Overprotective, Post Reichenbach, References to Drug Use, Suicidal Thoughts, Tumblr, Tumblr Prompt, Weddings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-15
Updated: 2013-08-11
Packaged: 2017-12-11 22:20:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 20
Words: 13,980
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/803884
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EntreNous/pseuds/EntreNous
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of <i>Sherlock</i> ficlets written from tumblr prompts (and for occasional kink-meme mini-fills).  Each "chapter" features an individual ficlet.  Look for titles, pairings, and ratings in the chapter headers to take you to stories you might enjoy.  The ratings range from G to Explicit, and the lengths from 100 to over 1,000 words.  I'll include pertinent warnings in each ficlet-chapter summary, as well as the prompt and word count.  I'll add pairings and tags to this collection as I continue to update.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. In Plain Sight (Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Teen)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written for allyndra, who requested Sherlock/John, notes. Post-Reichenbach, so assumed character death. 370 words.

It was what people did, leave a note. John was damned if he wouldn't find Sherlock's, because he simply couldn't fathom Sherlock truly wouldn't have left a real one behind. 

He looked at 221B, of course, after those first few stunned days during which he'd done precisely nothing at all except get dressed, make a cup of tea, and sit in his chair until the daylight went soft and hazy into sunset and he could justify going back to bed again. 

He looked among the chemistry supplies, in the cushions of the sofa, behind the paintings on the walls, even flipping through every book Sherlock had until he began ripping out pages and swiping impatiently at his eyes (only watering from the dust, he told himself repeatedly, even though Mrs. Hudson had been through several times of late and there was not a speck of grime to be found anywhere). 

He shuffled through papers as well, article clippings, scrawled notes on case files, until it occurred to him, no, no, it wouldn't be a proper note most people would look for, would it? It would be in code, with ciphers or signs, a note cloaked to hide what was real. For Sherlock it would have been obvious where to look, how to find it. But Sherlock wasn't here any more.

In the end none of John's searches through Sherlock's things were fruitful, aside from finding in small moleskin notebooks a number of surprisingly good doodles and sketches. Most were of John himself: caught rolling his eyes at an exceptionally stiff-looking Mycroft; going through the mail and smiling at something he'd found; sprawled on the couch in one of the handful of times he'd gotten to it before Sherlock could take it over entirely; standing at attention unconsciously, as the crew from the Yard (done in broader abstract lines) went about searching for evidence.

In the end, John put the sketches in a kind of order, attaching them to pages a keepsake book, smoothing the fine paper with care. He still wondered if he were meant to find some secret communication, perhaps in those drawings. But every time he looked through them, all he could see was him, John Watson, alone.


	2. Might As Well (Greg Lestrade/John Watson, PG-13)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lestrade/John, motorcycle. Pre-slash. 574 words.

Living on his own for the first time in twenty years in a cramped dank flat, finding out his now ex-wife was engaged to the man she'd cheated on him with, and feeling increasingly like he'd made a terrible wrong turn at some stage in the game -- Lestrade figured he couldn't fit the role of man in a mid-life crisis much more if he tried.

 _Might as well_ , he thought on waking up alone his third Saturday morning after signing the divorce-papers. For the first time in weeks, maybe years really, he felt a thrum of excitement rush through him.

"What is this?" Sally asked incredulously that Monday. She'd walked right past him in the car park, halting to do a double-take before back-tracking to gawk. 

"What does it look like?" he asked, pulling his helmet all the way off. He was still sat astride the refurbished motorcycle he now officially owned, and he grinned as he rested his booted heels on the ground and dusted off the shoulders of the creaky leather jacket he hadn't worn since uni. 

"It looks like a traffic collision waiting to happen," she scolded, crossing her arms.

His good mood didn't fade, though, not even when Anderson made several pointed remarks about accident statistics. Nor did it wane when Sherlock and John stopped by and Sherlock, without hearing about the acquisition from anybody, declared Lestrade had obviously paid 18% above its value for a recently-purchased motorcycle, all based on one glance at Lestrade's left knuckles. 

He reckoned it helped when Sherlock finally stalked off, bound for the evidence room and rolling his eyes at everyone as he went. John lingered behind to launch into an enthusiastic discussion about makes and models. Turned out John had spent one wild teenaged summer riding with friends around Germany and France, and regretted he hadn't been on a motorcycle much since then. 

"Happy to take you for a ride sometime, if you like," Lestrade mentioned before he could think better of it. 

"Yeah?" John grinned. He licked his lips. "How about now?"

"Suppose it's close enough to quitting time," Lestrade allowed, grabbing his helmet. "I've another one for you outside," he added, gesturing.

"I like a man who's prepared," John said with a smile as he followed.

Once positioned on the pillion, John didn't hesitate before wrapping his arms around Lestrade's torso. 

"Best not answer any of those texts from Sherlock while we're on the road," Lestrade advised, using the kick-start to send the motor purring. 

"Already turned off my phone, don't worry. I'm ready to enjoy this."

They rode through the streets, weaving around traffic, John's smaller but sturdy frame pressed against Lestrade's without hesitation. With the vibration of the motor against his thighs, those warm hands gripping his chest for balance, and John's occasional delighted laugh in his ear as they picked up speed, Lestrade felt about fifty feet tall by the time they stopped for a pint.

After, they headed back to the bike, both slipping their helmets on like they did this together every day.

"Back to yours, then," Lestrade asked, one hand on the throttle as he waited for the answer.

"Yeah, I suppose." It couldn't be his imagination that John sounded disappointed under his customary good cheer.

"Or back to mine," Lestrade added, struggling to keep his voice steady.

 _Might as well_ , he thought to himself rather wildly as John ducked his head and smiled.


	3. A Bit Overprotective (Mycroft Holmes/John Watson, Teen)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft/John, "Protective". 1,027 words.

"Need I remind you once more that you are not, in fact, acting as my bodyguard but posing as my companion?" Mycroft murmured the fifth time John stepped in between Mycroft and a slightly suspicious looking party guest. 

"I can't help it," John muttered in reply. He actually found he couldn't; no matter how much he understood abstractly there were plenty of undercover agents scattered throughout the ballroom, all of them stationed with the express purpose of defending Mycroft and him, he couldn't keep from positioning himself to shield Mycroft over and over again.

Mycroft nodded pleasantly to some acquaintance or other across the room who was trying to catch his eye before taking John's arm. From the sweet smile the woman in the stunning gown next to them sent their direction, the gesture probably looked rather fond. But in fact the way Mycroft's long fingers curled in pinched quite a lot.

"Doctor Watson, please," he whispered in John's ear as though he was imparting sweet nothings instead of what John knew was a thinly-veiled and exasperated scolding. "Though I find your protective instincts commendable and rather endearing, your tendency to try to stand between me and danger is in fact jeopardizing this mission. And might I point out, of the two of us, it is you who is threatened by greater peril?" 

"Right, okay, I know," John said irritably. He glanced at a fit blond man coming their way, and despite Mycroft's long-suffering sigh, once again unconsciously slid himself bodily in front of Mycroft. 

The last three men Mycroft had dated in an official capacity ("He means the ones he brought round to proper social events, not just the ones he shagged over desks," Sherlock had contributed during the briefing while Mycroft frowned disapprovingly) had all been subject to seemingly random attacks shortly after their relationships with Mycroft had been brought to light. 

After that unpleasantness, apparently Mycroft had decided not to make any of his affairs public until the matter was sorted. But his superiors (and John shuddered to think of the kind of political power someone actually higher up than Mycroft might wield) felt they wished to settle the matter as soon as possible, lest other "minor" officials find their romantic partners threatened as leverage to some or other scheme. 

Hence the current plot, designed to lure out whoever was trying to take aim at Mycroft by providing a suitable imposter in John. The plan was to appear at the highly-publicized charity function at Mycroft's side and then have John (of course followed by a security detail that John privately suspected had training as ninjas) put himself in various public and easily accessible places in hopes their suspect would make his move. 

"There will of course be ample protection; you should not be called upon to undertake any heroic feats," Mycroft had announced when he imparted the details to Sherlock and John. "It was determined, however, that the man acting the part should be highly capable at protecting himself. Naturally with those requirements, I suggested Doctor Watson."

"That, and John's precisely your type," Sherlock observed, paging through the file he'd been given.

"What?" John asked, startled.

Mycroft's lips twisted into an unpleasant grimace as he shot a warning glare at Sherlock.

"You know, quite educated, very competent, but with an air about you that might well make those in the elite classes refer to you as Mycroft's 'a bit of rough,' " Sherlock answered absently as he got to his feet. "There had better be ample protection," he remarked to Mycroft, who now looked rather red in the face. "I won't have you endangering John because your boyfriends have a habit of getting into dangerous situations."

After giving a flailing gesture by way of farewell, John had followed close upon Sherlock's heels. He'd fled partly because he had long since given up apologizing to Mycroft for Sherlock's rudeness and partly because his brain kept replaying the image of Mycroft shagging someone who looked far too much like John over his desk.

"Honestly, John," Mycroft bent to hiss in his ear. The man that had prompted John to maneuver himself into a protective pose had long since passed them by. "Is this how you behave on stake-outs?"

"Of course not," John protested. Stake-outs, chasing criminals, shooting someone at mid-range: all those circumstances were far easier than trying to keep his cool in a milling crowd of toffs who might or might not be scheming in between sips of champagne to assault Mycroft's presumed boyfriend. 

"You can cease this distasteful display at once," Sherlock announced, suddenly at John's elbow.

"What? Why?" John scanned the room automatically, looking for more suspicious guests. "Sherlock, you're going to blow our cover!"

"Pointless. The perpetrator has already revealed himself." Sherlock gave the two of them a disdainful once-over. "Apparently he was so convinced by what anyone with eyes would deem a shameless show of concupiscence that he decided to act tonight. I found him in a supplies closet choosing some rather nasty looking batons and knives for his attack. Mycroft's minions already have him in custody."

"Well. That's certainly a relief." John peered at Mycroft, and found he had to bodily resist the urge to pat him down to make sure he was all right. 

Mycroft looked down at him and smiled. "Thank you, John, for your assistance. I hope there's some way I can repay --"

"Oh, for god's sake," Sherlock burst out. "The two of you should just snog already, so this evening won't have been a complete waste of time." He stormed off, probably to rattle off incriminating evidence at whatever unit of MI5 had shown up.

John readied himself to laugh off the insinuation when he noticed Mycroft regarding him with a thoughtful look. 

We could probably go get a drink," he offered. "Now that they've caught the bloke." 

"I'd be delighted, Doctor Watson," Mycroft replied, gesturing for John to proceed him. 

John smoothed his jacket as he'd been itching to do all night and led the way. At least this way he'd be positioned in front in case anyone decided to try anything funny.


	4. Crisis Averted (Mycroft Holmes/John Watson, Explicit)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft/John - cuddly sex. 639 words.

"Fucking hell, what time is it?" John moaned, grabbing for the bedside clock and examining its face through bleary eyes.

"Language, John. And it is four a.m., clearly a time when you should be asleep."

"You know, funny thing, but I would be asleep were it not for you staying up until all hours of the night to solve a crisis in --" He paused. "In, er --" 

"Bolivia," Mycroft supplied.

"In Bolivia! Because then you would come to bed at a reasonable hour like a normal man and not wake me up when you finally try to sneak in at four o'clock in the damn morning."

"I never sneak," Mycroft said with dignity. He already had on his light blue Egyptian cotton pyjamas, the ones John so liked to stroke whenever they actually got the chance to cuddle together at bedtime. 

"No, no, 'course not." Scowling, John punched his pillow and flipped over to his other side.

For a few moments, there were no sounds aside from Mycroft's even breaths and the mattress creaking as John twitched, trying to get comfortable. 

"Did you solve it?" he asked finally. "The crisis?"

"The crisis was indeed averted. I'll tell you all about it in the morning."

John had to laugh at that. "Not all about it, obviously."

"With the most sensitive parts redacted, of course." 

John didn't reply, but he sighed, relaxing at the murmur of that familiar voice so close by in their darkened bedroom.

The mattress shifted again as Mycroft moved toward John, pulling him gently back against his body. "All right?"

"Mmm." 

Drawing back the arm he'd wrapped around him slightly, Mycroft rubbed gently against John's chest, his palm moving in slow circles. He murmured contented sounds as his lips brushed back and forth several times at the nape of John's neck. 

John spent all of a minute pretending he was about to drop off to sleep before he arched his back. At Mycroft's sharply indrawn breath he rolled his hips, rubbing against the body curled tightly against his until both of them began to pant. 

"Shall we?" Mycroft always sounded ridiculously gallant when he asked if John wanted to have sex; John tried his best not to admit his heart always fluttered every time he heard those chivalrous inquiries.

"Seeing as how we're already awake," John managed as Mycroft's large warm hands tugged down John's pants.

In the space of a moment John found himself rolled forward, still on his side but angled into the mattress, his t-shirt still on but riding up as Mycroft slid his hard cock between John's buttocks. He had no idea when Mycroft had gotten rid of his own clothing, and found he didn't much care.

"Oh, that's so nice," John whispered. 

Mycroft crooned something to him in French before working his way down John's body, mouthing along his spine, nipping at the cheeks of his arse, and finally drawing his clever tongue along the crevice in his backside, getting it good and wet.

"Yeah," John mumbled as Mycroft resumed his position curved around him, erection thrusting more easily against his arse as the saliva eased the way. "Just like that."

It was slow and steady, the two of them rocking together with soft sounds and languid touches, until Mycroft dragged his teeth against John's neck and called out in a gruff voice, "Oh, love." The brief burst of speed that followed left John gasping through the tremors.

They wound down with kisses and caresses, re-settling themselves under the duvet that had begun to edge toward the floor. 

"I am sorry I woke you," Mycroft breathed. He nuzzled at John's hair. 

Facing away from him, eyes already closing, John grinned. "No, you're not."

"No, I'm not," Mycroft agreed, giving John's neck one last kiss before they both fell asleep.


	5. Surrounded (Sherlock Holmes/Greg Lestrade, Teen)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So I'm adding ficlets/mini fills I've written for the Sherlock BBC Prompting Meme (formerly the Kink Meme) to this collection as well. Just pretend they're from tumblr or something.
> 
> An anon prompter [wanted](http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/21697.html?thread=126352833#t126352833) “Sherlock and Lestrade hugging the hell out of each other.” Post Reichenbach, pre-slash, 471 words.

The first time it happens, Greg's just looked up from the considerable amount of paperwork on his desk to see Sherlock Holmes standing before him, hands in pockets, face impassive except for a tight set to his mouth.

"Yes, yes, I'm actually alive," Sherlock says irritably, as though he's had to make this assurance quite a lot in the recent past. Given that everyone thought he was truly dead, including Greg up to this very moment, Greg wouldn't be surprised if that's in fact the case.

"So go on," Sherlock scowls. "Mrs. Hudson slapped me and then fell all over me weeping, John staggered back before shouting for an hour -- well, fifty-three minutes, but you understand -- and Mycroft -- well, Mycroft knew, actually. So he merely glared disapprovingly when his people brought me round." 

Greg gets up from his chair and circles to where Sherlock is. He's certain his eyes have gone huge, and there's a buzz along his nerves that feels almost like burning from the base of his spine to the tips of his fingers and toes. Really, he's not certain what he'll do when he reaches the other man.

Sherlock's chin points up in the air (stubborn), his knees bend ever so slightly (bracing for a knock) and his grey eyes narrow at Greg (always takes the offense as the best defense).

"You absolute bastard," Greg says frankly as he claps both his arms around Sherlock to hold him tight.

It goes on for a while. At first Sherlock is stiff as a board, probably with shock. After a few moments, he tentatively raises a hand to rest on Greg's shoulder. After several minutes, he hunches, wrapping both of those too-skinny arms (of course he's lost even more weight, the git) around Greg's back.

"Sir, I -- oh," Donovan says blankly as she hovers at the threshold. 

"Bit busy at the moment," Greg murmurs. In the last little while he's started to rub his right palm across Sherlock's prominent shoulder blades, and though he's not entirely certain what it means, Sherlock is trembling ever so slightly in his arms.

"Right." 

He can't see her, because now Sherlock's mop of curls has got in his eyes enough so that he lets them fall closed. 

"Later, then." She pauses. "Glad you're not dead, freak."

Sherlock scoffs as Donovan slips out, but the sound loses its sting, muffled as it is Greg's shoulder. 

It only then occurs to Greg that Sherlock must be stooped enough that he's got to start aching any moment now.

"Okay," he starts to say, pulling back slightly.

Sherlock makes a disgruntled noise and yanks him back into the hug.

It has been years after all, along with mourning and anger and everything that went with it. Greg sighs and settles in for a while.


	6. Take Care (John Watson/Jim Moriarty, Teen)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the prompt: "John/Jim - John i[s] injured during a case and Jim worries in his own way." 926 words. Pre-slash-ish, mentions of violence.

Finding the blue-cloth ice-pack atop his desk at work with an attached note reading, "Take care!" wasn't so very odd. John had mentioned his bruised ribs to Sarah only an hour before after all, so no doubt she'd prepared him the remedy. 

Of course she'd looked at him blankly when he thanked her on his way out, but it had been a busy day at the locum, and he didn't blame her if she was distracted.

Getting the hand-delivered voucher for a series of massages at a nearby tony spa just a moment after he arrived home seemed a bit stranger. 

"Do you think this came from someone who owes you a favor, Sherlock?" he asked after he climbed the steps to 221B, waving the item he'd just received at his flat-mate.

Sherlock made a non-committal noise from his prone position on the couch, keeping his fingers steepled beneath his chin. 

John frowned at the high-quality vellum envelope, unmarked aside from the spa's address and business insignia. It wouldn't be the first time a prospective client had tried to curry favor with Sherlock by sending an expensive gift. But when he tugged out the card inside all the way, he found his own name scribbled on the recipient line in spidery writing, with "Take care!" added as an afterthought.

"We already have the first appointment arranged for you in a week's time, Doctor Watson," the receptionist at the spa replied when John called to ask about the matter. "We wouldn't recommend treating the injured area before that point in any case."

John cleared his throat. "Sorry, but how did you know I was injured? Also, who was it that paid for this, please?" 

"Next week, then!" she chirped before hanging up the phone.

But the strangest delivery of all came the next evening, when he and Sherlock went to the Yard for a meeting with Lestrade. 

"Here's the paperwork for PC Harrison you asked for, sir," Sally interrupted, handing a folder to Lestrade before leaving the room. 

Lestrade flipped through the contents and glanced up. "Speaking of Harrison -- hope you'll accept our apologies again, John, for the scrape last night."

John shrugged. "It wasn't anyone's fault, really." 

Yes, Harrison, one of the newest members of Lestrade's team, had bumbled in his cover of Sherlock and John and given their hiding place away during the stake out. John suffered a few contusions as a result when the criminals they were after rushed at him. But John understood all new recruits went through a learning curve; it had just been his misfortune to get caught in the melee. Besides, getting a few bumps and bruises was nothing so different from what he and Sherlock accumulated regularly on other cases. 

"Damnedest thing, though," Lestrade continued as he signed off on the papers. "Not a single blow landed on Harrison last night when the perps rushed your way. Then he goes home and gets himself mugged in broad daylight. His injuries were so extensive that he'll be out for a week, maybe two."

"Could I just see?" John asked, circling the desk to look at the materials Lestrade held. There were print-outs of digital photos taken as evidence accompanying the police report. In them the young constable looked miserable, every visible part of him black and blue and swollen.

"You can see they really worked him over." Lestrade swept a hand over his face, seemingly exhausted. "I thought maybe it might have been connected to last night, maybe some pay back. But Harrison swears up and down he can't identify his assailants and we don't have any more to go on at the moment. Poor lad."

Sherlock looked up from his phone. "If you're quite done nattering on about your staffing issues, John and I will be on our way." He didn't respond to John's admonishing, "Sherlock!", instead sweeping out of the office and leaving John to follow in his wake. 

By the time they reached the pavement, however, Sherlock had gotten a text that made his face light up. "Brains, John, brains -- ten of them! Off to Bart's. I'll catch up with you back at Baker Street later."

John sighed and squared his shoulders, prepared to wait an age to get a cab in the busy area. Surprisingly, one pulled up straight away. 

"All right?" the driver asked in a strange nasal voice once John had given his destination and they were underway.

John nodded absently. The rest of the journey passed in silence. 

As he watched the familiar sights of the city go by, John couldn't help but wonder if the attack on Harrison indeed had something to do with the events of the other night. Sherlock hadn't seemed to pick up on anything when he heard about it, true. But if there was no connection between Harrison's mugging and some larger more intriguing case sparking his interest, he'd be unlikely to consider it worth thinking about.

When they arrived at Baker Street, John fumbled in his pockets as he stepped onto the kerb, head down so he might thumb through his wallet.

"No charge, Doctor Watson," the cabbie murmured. "Just take care of yourself, or I'll do it for you." There was a flash of white paper as something flipped through the air toward John.

John jerked upright, confused and then stunned when he saw Jim Moriarty touch his flat cap deferentially and drive away. Then he glanced down at the pavement, where a photograph of Constable Harrison, face bloated and eyes blackened, had landed.


	7. By Moonlight (Sherlock Holmes/Greg Lestrade, Teen)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the prompt: “Sherlock/Lestrade; Sherlock is prone to vivid nightmares - over the years Lestrade learned to deal with them.” Mentions of drug use and recovery. Pre-slash-y.

The first time it happened, Lestrade had just finished having a whispered argument with his wife about the junkie crashed out in their lounge. She'd finally thrown her hands in the air and left him to his vigil slumped in the chair next to Sherlock's twitching body. Even if he hadn't determined he should keep watch, it seemed unlikely he'd find welcome in his own bed tonight.

A few hours later, they'd got through the cold sweat stage and the sicking up into the bucket Lestrade had luckily thought to place by Sherlock's head stage. Sherlock had at last calmed, pale and oh so young looking, finally relaxed against the pillow he hugged to his chest.

Lestrade had only just let his own eyes droop shut when he startled awake to the sound of frightened whimpering.

"Christ, Sherlock," he blurted, hoarse. Was it a heart attack, or a seizure? He stumbled to his feet, trying to gather his wits in the dark room and decide if he should lurch over to the phone and dial 999 yet.

Then he stopped and really looked, at the furrow in Sherlock's brow, the tight little downturn to his lips, the huddled posture.

"S'all right, Holmes," he tried, leaning over the couch. He reached out a wary hand and rested it on Sherlock's shoulder. "Holmes, you're all right."

Sherlock sat bolt upright and looked at Lestrade like he was mental. "What are you doing?"

Lestrade took a staggering step back, only having just avoided Sherlock knocking their heads together. "What am _I_ \-- you're the one having a nightmare, not to mention recovering from an overdose you refused to go to hospital for! I'm only trying to help out, mad as that sounds."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, managing to look dignified in his disdain despite his sweat-rumpled clothing and shaky demeanor. "Call me a cab."

"Come on, you're in no shape to go anywhere."

His only reply was Sherlock leaping to his feet and pacing out of the flat to wait on the pavement for his ride.

***

Cases came and cases went. 

At times Sherlock showed up to scenes high; other times, he slunk in to Lestrade's office obviously suffering from withdrawal. He showed off with rapid-fire instructions and creative insults, spates of deductive brilliance punctuated by moments of truly horrendous rudeness to Lestrade's constables. Occasionally he wouldn't show at all, kept from pursuing his "work" by long stretches in rehab. 

Lestrade only knew the details about Sherlock's time at elite clinics from a series of untraceable calls and texts. For whatever reason, someone on high took an interest in Sherlock and wanted Lestrade to pay attention to matters. He got used to dashing off to whatever current wreck of a flat Sherlock called home at a moment's notice, a bone of contention with his wife that loomed larger with every month that slipped by.

"You're only here because you need me," Sherlock snarled at him once, when Lestrade had showed at his place on Montague Street, summoned by whatever mysterious guardian had declared that evening a "danger night" to Greg.

"Ever thought I might actually care about what happens to you?" Greg exploded.

Sherlock looked up from his frantic paging through stacks of sheet music and stilled completely, frowning. "No." He set the lot of it down, discomfited probably for the first time in Greg's sight at least. 

"Well, I don't have time to drum it into your skull tonight if you hadn't already noticed. So let's just take it as read, and get some sleep."

Of course Sherlock paced and muttered for another half hour before finally collapsing on his couch.

Barely an hour passed before that familiar whimpering dragged Greg out of the doze he'd fallen into in the lumpy armchair.

"Hey," he tried. Sherlock had curled in on himself, facing the back of the couch, and his shoulders shook enough that Greg worried he might actually be weeping in his sleep. "Hey. You okay?" He stood, hovering over Sherlock, unsure what to do next.

"Go home, Lestrade," Sherlock said at last. He sounded weary. "I promise to stick nothing in my veins or snort anything up my nose during the period you're supposed to be on watch."

"But --"

"Get out!" Sherlock shouted.

Lestrade left, but only as far as the stoop outside, where he huddled against the building and waited for morning.

***

After Sherlock got clean more or less for good, there obviously weren't many reasons for Lestrade to watch over him while he slept.

But one night when John was out with a date and Sherlock had texted short stroppy messages solving two of Lestrade's cases he wasn't even supposed to know about, Lestrade stormed over to Baker Street to find Sherlock lounging in his no doubt obscenely expensive pyjamas and silk dressing gown.

"I don't know how you got your hands on those files," Lestrade started.

"Dull!" Sherlock swept around the flat, shoving irritably at Lestrade with his shoulder when he determined Lestrade was a hindrance to some imagined important trajectory of his. 

"But there's nothing really pressing on right now, and so you should just stop this -- whatever this is, and get some sleep!"

Sherlock paused at the window, looking like some ridiculously overgrown fae creature in the moonlight. Lestrade wanted to rub the fanciful image out of his eyes, but he was rather short of sleep himself these days.

"I can't," Sherlock said at last. "I -- it doesn't seem advisable."

 _Afraid you'll have more nightmares?_ Greg wanted to ask. _Worried you're not safe on your own right now? Or is it maybe that you're just feeling a bit lonely?_

What he said, though, was: "I'm here."

After a moment Sherlock gave him a short nod. He marched to his bedroom, glancing irritably over his shoulder twice to make certain Greg followed. 

He burrowed under the covers while Greg toed off his shoes. Too exhausted to work out whether this was the wisest idea, Greg stretched out atop the covers next to Sherlock and closed his eyes.


	8. The Weather and Everyone's Health (Sherlock/Lestrade, G)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the prompt "sherstrade - Ridiculous schmoopy & fluffy fic of Lestrade cheering up Sherlock who's grouchy from the weather." Perhaps not schmoopy and fluffy to a ridiculous enough degree, but I do think both Lestrade and Sherlock feel better at the end despite the weather. The title makes unrelated reference to _My Fair Lady_.

As Greg turned the page to read about Arsenal's chances, Sherlock heaved a frustrated sigh.

"Fancy a walk?" 

An absolutely disgusted sound was the only reply.

"Want to take in a film, then?"

The sofa creaked as Sherlock turned over in a fit of pique.

Greg folded the paper and set it aside. "All right, out with it."

Sherlock stood and stalked to the window, gesturing outside. "Why would I want to take a walk or venture outside in this -- this horrible weather?"

Greg blinked at the beautiful blue sky. "Are you joking? Wait, of course you're not -- but it's bloody gorgeous outside!"

"People picnicking. Mothers and children strolling." Sherlock's sneer made the prospects sound truly repulsive. "All of London in a happy daze just because of balmy temperatures and sunshine!"

"Right." Greg rubbed his chin. "So you want the weather to turn foul again because --"

"Because obviously this is no sort of weather for crime! If we're waiting for the killers in any of these current cases to strike again, they're obviously not going to do it on days when they're enjoying 99 Flakes and Pimm's cups!"

Greg got to his feet, walking over and slipping his arms around Sherlock. The other man remained stiff for all of a second before he slumped back. 

"Want to watch one of those procedural shows?" Greg whispered, kissing his neck.

"But you hate when I talk about their idiotic mistakes." 

"Well, not if it'll cheer you up I won't."

"Fine." Sherlock flung himself on the floor, leaning against the couch, and waved a hand dismissively at the telly. 

One episode in, he'd excoriated the featured fictional detective to the degree that Greg actually winced in sympathy for a made-up character. But he'd also begun to lounge against Greg's legs.

Three episodes in, he'd exposed every single twist in the various plots and more or less destroyed any of Greg's enthusiasm for his favorite programme. 

But as Sherlock had also by then calmed enough to lean in close and let Greg comb his fingers through those unruly curls, Greg decided it was a fair trade enough for a beautiful day.


	9. Runaround (John Watson/Jim Moriarty, Teen)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the prompt: "John/Jim: Jim gets jealous of all the time John is spending with Sherlock and tries to do something about it." Featuring running-around John, excessively cheerful and emotive Jim Moriarty acting a bit like a stereotypical teenage girl, and too much coffee.

"Right, I got here as soon as I could," John blurted upon entering the reception area of the clinic.

When the door shut behind him, however, he spotted Sarah curled up with a cup of tea on a couch in the exceptionally empty waiting area.

"Oh, John, I'd love to give you some hours. But it's the quietest day we've seen in ages," Sarah said apologetically.

John frowned, remembering the frantic message begging him to come in. "So you didn't phone? No one did?" 

She shook her head and glanced at the receptionist, who only sent a sceptical look John's way. 

"Sherlock," John breathed in alarm.

"He's a funny bloke, isn't he?" the receptionist asked as John dashed back out.

* * *

But when John returned to the flat, Sherlock was fine, albeit stroppy and petulant. 

"I don't see why you need to fuss over me when everything is absolutely horribly _normal_ today."

"It's just, who would call me in, pretending to be someone from the clinic, if not to find a way to get me away from you? You can't blame me for thinking something might have gone wrong."

"Even had that been the case, I'm perfectly capable of taking care of myself," Sherlock complained as he hugged his knees to his chest, tugging his dressing gown tighter. On the tables around him sat a good dozen half-filled mugs of old coffee, a few of which had already begun to mould. 

John's phone vibrated.

 _Meet me at eleven today? Please? That Costa from last time,_ the text read.

"Wonder why Jeanette's trying to get in touch with me?" John muttered. He checked the time again before verifying the address he remembered from their last meeting. If he caught the Tube quickly, he could make it to the appointed place with minutes to spare. 

"Boring," Sherlock pronounced. He picked up one of his manky mugs and examined its contents with interest. 

* * *

"WHY WOULD I EVER TRY TO REACH YOU AGAIN?" Jeanette's rather uncharitable text read when John messaged her to inquire if she planned to show. He deleted it without bothering to reply. 

If Sarah hadn't phoned, and Jeanette hadn't texted, though -- despite Sherlock claiming he was fussing, John simply wasn't being paranoid that someone wanted him away from 221B, and was deliberately misleading him to separate him from Sherlock.

Again that urge to rush to Sherlock's side and find if he was safe arose. But instead John made himself take a sip of the coffee, grown cool during the twenty minutes he'd waited for Jeanette, and sent a text.

_All right?_

_Of course. SH._

_Should I return to Baker Street?_

_If you must. SH._

John snorted and made to get out of his seat. Apparently Sherlock really was okay, but he might as well head home.

"From the gent in the corner," one of the baristas pronounced as she set down before John a large mug containing some ridiculous coffee confection. He could hardly see the contents, filled as the mug was with frothed milk, whipped cream, and a thick drizzling of lurid red syrup.

John peered over in confusion, following the wave of her hand. When he saw who she indicated, his jaw dropped.

"Oh come now, Doctor Watson. Close your mouth, or I'll start to get ideas," Jim Moriarty sing-songed with a manic grin. He drew closer to the table and took the empty seat across from John.

John kept his eye steady on Moriarty as he eased the mug of coffee away.

"Oh, piffle. I'd hardly poison you in broad daylight." Moriarty seemed to pout at the very idea. 

"Wouldn't you?" John asked stiffly.

Moriarty frowned before his expression changed to one of pure glee. "You're right. I would! But not _you_ particularly, just the more general yooouuuu." He gestured to indicate all the people inside the shop and those tramping by on the pavement outside. "And I'd have something more up my sleeve than a simple little coffee house murder, I'd hope!"

At the word "murder", a small boy from a nearby table turned to stare. Jim twisted in his seat to stare back, his lip curling slightly.

John lowered his voice and leaned in close to get Jim's attention again. The last thing he needed was for Moriarty to decide to take a child as a target. "You were the one who sent those messages to me today, weren't you?"

"I can see why Sherlock keeps you around." Jim beamed as he refocused on John. "You're ever so clever."

"So why did you? What's happening?" John asked as steadily as possible. He could feel his heart thrumming. Why had Moriarty wanted to lure John away if not to endanger Sherlock in some way? 

"What's _happening_ is that you spend far too much time just hanging about Sherlock, waiting for him to find some or other crime to occupy your time. It's rather boring, don't you think? The secret to life is to make your own fun, Johnny." Jim tapped the side of his nose and gave a decisive nod. "I could help with that, you know."

John's mouth twisted as he struggled to keep calm. "Why don't you tell me what's really going on?"

"Oh, why does everything have to be so _complicated_ with men like you?" Jim moaned, actually dropping his head onto his folded arms. He looked up with a sulky expression. "Think about it, John. I took time out of my very busy schedule -- for which you've not thanked me even a little -- to get you away from Sherlock. Why would I do that? Can't you pick the most obvious answer?"

"He probably fancies you," a teenage girl passing by pronounced with a titter before scurrying off with her equally giggly friend.

"No." John shook his head emphatically. "No, that's clearly not --"

Jim's expression took on a mischievous cast as he widened his brown eyes. 

"Right, I'm leaving." John's chair scraped against the floor as he rose. He'd had enough of deception for the day. There was no point in trying to discern Moriarty's game when Moriarty only aimed to make John feel incredibly foolish.

"Catch you another time, Doctor Watson!" Jim called out merrily. 

From the kerb, John glanced back, expecting to find Moriarty already mysteriously gone. 

Instead he took in the worrisome sight of Jim pointing at him and making comically despairing faces at the two giggling girls who had apparently returned to the table to give him advice.


	10. Heart's Desire (John Watson/Mycroft Holmes, G)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For allyndra, and her lovely short prompt of "John/Mycroft, toffee." When I poked around online for varieties of toffee, I found there's a soft toy in the UK known as Toffee the Pony. So here we have the result (in which I'm sure I exaggerate this toy's popularity), a kid fic featuring John's daughter Isla, lots of fluff, and a dash of angst. This feels like one I could make an entire series from, but then John/Mycroft ficlets often feel that way to me. 1,103 words.

"And what have you asked Father Christmas to bring you this year, hmm?"

John's daughter Isla looked up at Mycroft with her wide green eyes before leaning back shyly against her father. "Toffee," she answered in a soft voice.

Mycroft smiled at her, but Isla had already turned her face against John's leg and didn't notice. "She likes sweets that much?" he asked John. "Not that I don't appreciate a fine toffee myself, but I would think Christmas provides children a chance to ask for something a bit grander."

"Oh, no -- I mean, yes, she certainly likes sweets well enough," John answered as he tried to untangle his daughter from his limbs and get her to pay some attention to their guest. "But she means this Toffee the Pony. That's the present all the girls in her day nursery want, apparently, and she can't stop talking about it. I've had a hell of a time trying to find one for her, though, what with the demand and the time of year."

"Ah." Mycroft looked thoughtful. "I imagine so. Perhaps if you would let me attempt to make the purchase, I might have better luck."

"I couldn't ask you to do that," John said hastily. He sighed as Isla tugged at his jumper as a signal to be picked up. Sure enough, as soon as she was in his arms she hid against John's shoulder, blocking out Mycroft entirely. "You've already invited us to spend Christmas Day with you. And we're looking forward to that very much, aren't we, Isla?"

"I would very much welcome the opportunity to give Isla something she would enjoy," Mycroft said, reaching out to rest his hand against Isla's soft blond curls. He retracted the touch a second later, however, as if he feared he had presumed too much. 

John hitched his daughter up a bit higher and tried a smile. It had been four months since he and Mycroft had begun dating, and over a year and a half since Mary had passed away after a bitter struggle with cancer. It seemed high time for Mycroft and his daughter to get to know one another.

It was just that Isla was so bashful, and Mycroft so polite, that John couldn't seem to find a way to make them friends. Admittedly, they'd only tried the experiment a few times -- a trip to the ballet that Mycroft had arranged, an afternoon at the cinema John had suggested, and now this more casual visit at John's flat. But now that the holidays were upon them, with all the attendant focus on children and families, John felt an increasing pressure to fit the two most important people in his life together.

He didn't want to force his daughter's affections. But as the days passed, and Mycroft seemed to John to grow rather wistful at Isla's continued timidity, John felt very keenly how complicated it was, balancing a developing relationship when there was a child to think of.

The way Mycroft watched them now, with a respectful distance for John and Isla's embrace evident in his pose but a kind of yearning in his expression as he regarded the way they held each other, fully decided the matter.

"Okay, yes, thank you," John said firmly. "It's kind of you to offer, and we both appreciate it very much." He couldn't imagine Mycroft braving the crowds at Smyths Toys to purchase the ridiculous soft toy. But as one of Mycroft's assistants would likely do the shopping in his place, John decided he wouldn't worry overmuch. 

"May I suggest you and Isla arrive at the country house earlier that day than we had planned? That way, she wouldn't have as long to wait for her present."

Though to most people Mycroft's suggestion probably seemed calm and collected, John could sense his growing excitement in being the one to get Isla the gift she most desired. And what would be the harm, John thought, if a silly toy helped smooth the way between his daughter and his partner?

"We'll be there."

* * *

"Shouldn't we go to the house?" John asked when Mycroft met them at the car and suggested a walk on the grounds. "Only it's quite cold." He had Isla in her winter coat, but the frilled dress she wore underneath was hardly fitting for a tramp about in the chilly weather. 

"No, I think a walk is in order first." Mycroft strode ahead, seeming almost as excited as Isla had been that morning when she discovered her stocking and clambered onto John's bed to show him the contents. So John shrugged and swung Isla into his arms so they could follow.

He was about to ask if Mycroft had been able to find the toy without much fuss when he looked up at the structure they were approaching. "Mycroft. Those are stables."

"So they are," Mycroft commented. He gestured for John to set Isla on her feet and held out his kidskin glove-clad hand to her.

She hesitated for a moment before skipping over and grasping his large hand firmly with her tiny fingers.

"Shall we go see what Father Christmas has brought you?" Mycroft asked, pointing to the stables. Isla gave a frolic of excitement, and fairly dragged him inside.

"Oh my god, Mycroft," John called out as he hurried after them. "A pony -- you can't have done --"

But he had. Inside one of the stalls was the softest sweetest looking pony, champagne in coat, as close to the color of butter toffee as John could have imagined. 

"Oh!" Isla breathed. She looked up at the pony and immediately extended her arms to Mycroft so he could pick her up and provide her with a closer perspective. When they leaned in and the pony nuzzled her little hand, she giggled. "Toffee," she said fondly, resting against Mycroft's side.

John sighed, raising his eyes heavenward. "Did I muck up describing this, or did you just decide to ignore the fifty-pound present Isla asked for in favor of this god knows how exorbitantly priced pony?"

"Do you think she would prefer the plush toy?" Mycroft asked solicitously.

John glanced at his daughter, who had her hands clasped in delight and an enraptured expression on her face. He rubbed his forehead with the heel of his palm and laughed. "No, honestly, I don't. It's just-- you didn't have to give her an actual pony to get her to like you."

"It's hardly hurt my chances," Mycroft said with some dignity as the pony whinnied and Isla clapped her hands.


	11. All the Small Things (Sherlock/Lestrade, G)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the prompt: "Sherstrade - Jealousy but from someone (and it could be anyone) outside of the relationship." Another kid!fic, this time featuring Lestrade's small son Daniel, and divorced dad!Lestrade and wary!Sherlock early in their relationship. 1,096 words.
> 
> Now part of a little series featuring the characters, itself titled [All the Small Things](https://archiveofourown.org/series/55762). You'll find this fic re-posted as the first story in that series.

"Slight change of plans," Lestrade began apologetically when he answered the door.

Sherlock looked at Lestrade, the drawn face that said he hadn't gotten as much slumber as he would have liked, the stained t-shirt that spoke of thwarted intentions to change his sleep clothes, and at the ruddy faced toddler who stood next to him, clinging to his father's pyjama bottoms and scowling up at Sherlock. "Obviously."

"Two of the nurses called in sick for the late night shift, and they needed Sarah to work. And because Daniel's babysitter apparently needs booking weeks in advance, I'm the only one who could look after him." Lestrade hesitated. "I know you didn't exactly sign on to meet him quite so soon. And I really did mean for us to spend an afternoon alone. If you'd rather we rescheduled --"

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at the small boy next to Lestrade, who glared right back. 

"Nonsense." He slipped past them and marched over to the couch, flinging himself on it. "You shower. I'll make sure he doesn't set anything on fire or otherwise imperil himself." 

"Christ, if I didn't need a shower so very badly, I really don't think I'd take you up on that." Lestrade went down on one knee to look his son in the eye. "That's Sherlock, okay? He's a friend."

"Sh'log," Daniel said. The word conveyed a world of mistrust. 

"Will you behave for him for five minutes while papa gets dressed?"

For a moment it looked as though the child would have a meltdown of truly epic proportions. Then he silently gathered up an armful of soft toys along with a model fire engine nearly as big as he and flung himself into a squashy chair opposite Sherlock.

"If he wails, you can give him some juice. That usually does the trick," Lestrade said at the edge of the room, dithering.

"Go," Sherlock said impatiently, keeping his gaze trained on the petulant child watching him with equal wariness.

* * *

Greg really had only meant to take five minutes.

But he'd been woken at three in the morning when Sarah had dashed over from her flat with apologies, rushed explanations, and a whingy Daniel in tow. In the rush of settling his son down to sleep in the small room he stayed in while with Greg and trying to keep Daniel entertained when he woke at a horribly early hour that morning, Greg hadn't managed even a moment of sleep or a cup of tea for himself.

After he caught himself groaning in ecstasy at the hot shower water pelting down on him and absent-mindedly washing his hair twice, it really wasn't a surprise to find he'd taken far longer than he intended. When he glanced at his bedside clock, he realized it had been twenty minutes.

He scrambled into his khaki trousers and fled his bedroom, buttoning his shirt as he went. "You two okay?"

The living room was empty.

No one was in the kitchen.

There was silence throughout the house.

Greg ran barefoot out the front door to the pavement, looking frantically back and forth. He had his mobile ready to call 999 when he heard the nonsensical exclamation of a toddler from the back garden.

Taking the stairs two at a time, he reentered and pounded through the ground floor to reach the back door. 

When he threw the door open with a bang, he saw Sherlock standing in his billowing coat. Beside him was Daniel, still in his pyjamas but with his wellies pulled on. Both were crouched to examine something on the ground.

"Worms, papa!" Daniel said happily when Greg approached at a jog.

"Worms," Greg repeated, suddenly winded. He ran his fingers through his hair and leaned in to look at the worms the two of them had laid out in squiggly rows alongside a steel rule that Greg had no idea he owned. 

"You'll notice the specimens we have collected vary in size, with the largest differences evident in the ones we dug from the flowerbeds," Sherlock lectured. "Now, why do you think that is?"

Daniel stood, tilting his head to one side and drawing up his left leg like a stork as he thought. "Maybe eggshells in 'dere," he said at last, pointing to the tiny scraps of them piled to the right of the worms.

"Very well observed. Now, the reason that eggshells nourish worms --" 

Greg's head whipped around to find that, yes, the flowerbeds he'd paid someone to come in and compost just weeks ago were now destroyed. When he turned back, he saw Daniel's small hands were caked in mud. Streaks of dirt liberally decorated his clothing and cheeks. 

Somehow Sherlock still looked immaculate.

Greg did his best to hide a smile. Before they did anything else he'd have to bathe Daniel, always something guaranteed to make his son fuss if it took place mid-day. But it was almost worth it to see his son staring up at Sherlock with wide fascinated eyes.

"Right, well, now that you two naturalists have had a bit of fun, why don't we get Daniel cleaned up, and I'll take us all out for pub grub?"

Sherlock sighed. "Wasteful to leave an experiment like this in the middle --"

Greg squeezed his arm gently to interrupt. "Probably, yeah. But it's been hours since breakfast, and if Daniel doesn't eat soon, you'll witness a tantrum the likes of which must be seen to be believed."

"All right, fine. Scrub him up, then, and we'll go."

"Okay." He looked back and forth, at his filthy son relaxed and smiling, and at Sherlock turning his calm attention back to the worms. He could hardly believe Sherlock had elected to stay when he saw Daniel was there in the first place, but that was nothing compared to Sherlock entertaining Daniel in the garden and actually agreeing to go out for pie and a pint along with his boyfriend's toddler.

Unable to resist any longer, Greg leaned in to brush a kiss across Sherlock's lips. 

"No!" Daniel shrieked. "My Sh'log!" He hurled his tiny body around Sherlock's leg.

Sherlock looked horrified to find that the mud had at last been distributed all over his designer suit. "I believe you'll have to lend me a change of clothes," he said crossly. 

"No problem there," Greg said, grinning. "I have a feeling I'm going to like seeing you wearing my things."

Sherlock rolled his eyes and stalked back to the house, Daniel still wrapped around his leg.


	12. Love is a Battle, Love is a War (Greg Lestrade/John Watson, PG)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the prompt: "Johnstrade, apocalypse". Post-Reichenbach. Warnings for mentions of depression and suicidal thoughts. The title is based on a quote from James Baldwin. 490 words.

It's the end of the world that brings them together.

Yeah, all right, so the world hasn't actually ended. Every day Greg's neighbors walk their dogs and go to work and fight with their spouses and watch rugby down at the pub. 

He imagines over at Scotland Yard, Anderson still heads the old forensics team, Dimmock thrusts his chin in the air as he tries to keep hold of that Detective Inspector title despite too many open cases, and Sally strides through hallways briskly and gets the job done better than half the men who rank higher than her. 

But Greg's world has come to an end, just as surely as Sherlock met his own end. 

He's lost his job. His wife's finally left him for good. He doesn't ring his mates or try to stay active. Why keep up the pretense that he still has a life to live?

When Greg has to move to a new flat (can't afford the old one anymore), after the removers leave he doesn't bother unpacking more than a single case with a few changes of clothes. 

It's not just that he's at the end of his rope. The only question is when he'll get to touch the very last unfurling strand, give it one final grasp, and let go.

"Christ, mate, you look awful," John pronounces when he finally tracks Greg down. Greg hadn't bothered giving anyone the new address. Maybe John's gone in for a bit of detective work himself to find him. 

"You're one to talk," Greg shoots back. John's pale and his face looks more lined than Greg remembers. But when John waits, just as stubborn as he remembers, he waves John inside. 

Neither of them says anything as John looks around at the boxes and dust and exhales slowly. 

At first it's just John coming round every few days and pestering him to set things up in his bedroom, shoving armfuls of clothes at Greg and tossing him handfuls of hangers he picked up somewhere.

Then John starts knocking him up holding bags of take-away, or saying he's picked up groceries for himself and thought he might as well get Greg milk, bread, and fruit. It's not long before he's nagging at Greg until he agrees to go for a pint, go for a walk, go to the cinema for the first time in an age. 

They're sitting in the dark, watching some action film with a ridiculously intricate plot, when John reaches over at takes Greg's hand, skimming his thumb along Greg's knuckles and holding on, not too tight, but firm and sure. 

"I thought it was the end of everything," John says later in the dark, when they're sprawled on Greg's couch, taking a break from kissing. 

Greg doesn't need to ask him what he means. "Can't be the end, can it," he says after a pause, his voice gone gruff. "Not when we're just starting."


	13. Wedding Jitters (Sherlock/Lestrade, PG)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the prompt “sherstrade and their wedding". Cranky fluff. 501 words.

"That's what you're wearing?" 

Greg froze in the act of straightening his tie and met Sherlock's gaze in the mirror. "Yes, this is damn well what I'm wearing."

Sherlock, as always, looked immaculate in one of his designer suits. His eyebrows rose, conveying his distaste as he looked over Greg's clothing. "Fine. You needn't be so peevish about it."

"Me, peevish? You up and decide you don't like what I have on when we're meant to be there before the ceremony in _twenty minutes_. And you think I'm being _peevish_?" 

Greg tried not to shout, he really did. But Sherlock had been pestering him constantly over the past few weeks: about the day they'd picked for the wedding (apparently he had several experiments that would be ruined unless Greg could miraculously change a date they'd had booked for ages); the venue for the small reception (Greg thought they had agreed together on a pretty little private room with a garden terrace outside months back, but it seemed now Sherlock felt it smacked of _petite bourgeoisie_ ), the guest list (Sherlock had recently declared he refused to be there if Mycroft would attend, and further decided to un-invite Sally by email. Greg really had shouted at that). 

" _I'm_ ready," Sherlock pointed out. He turned and strode from the room, no doubt to send of a barrage of texts to Dimmock, who had agreed to cover for Lestrade while they were supposed to be on their bloody honeymoon. 

When they finally arrived, five minutes to go before the vows, John grasped Sherlock's shoulder briefly to say a few words before he came over to clap his arms around Greg. "All right?" he asked as he drew back, grinning. 

Greg rolled his eyes.

"That's about what I thought." John looked amused, and well might he, the already-married bastard. "Sherlock on a normal day can be stroppy enough, but Sherlock with wedding jitters?" He shook his head fondly.

Greg turned sharply to look at Sherlock, who was stood apart from where Mary and Sally and Molly were exclaiming over one another, looking highly irritated.

"Right," Greg said to himself. He tugged on his suit jacket to straighten it and marched over to Sherlock. 

For all that Sherlock liked to harangue him about seeing and not observing, Greg couldn't miss that when Sherlock caught sight of him approaching, his entire expression changed. Just for a moment, he looked younger than he had the day Greg met him, more vulnerable than when he'd pulled Greg to him for their first awkward kiss, more stunned than the night Greg had stammered he wanted them to spend the rest of their lives together. 

A second later, and Sherlock appeared entirely composed. "Ready?" he asked pointedly. 

Greg said nothing as he took Sherlock's hand. And if, as they stepped forward together, Sherlock clutched his hand a bit too tightly, well, Greg could hardly find it in him to complain on what he was sure was the happiest day of his life.


	14. A Dirty Business (Sherlock/Lestrade, G)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the prompt “Sherstrade: Sherlock coming across a very dirty and rumpled Greg and being utterly distracted, leaving Greg confused and amused." Pre-slash, humor, 1,108 words.

"Sir, you have a bit of --" Sally brushed delicately at her own cheek.

"Yeah, thanks for that," Greg complained, waving her away when she grinned. 

He wasn't squeamish by any stretch, but occasionally he'd thought it a bad job when they had to chase suspects down filthy alleys, or investigate defunct factories with layers of dust everywhere. 

But in all his years on the force, he'd never actually been shoved into a pile of dirt before. At least, not until today, when the kindly old lady who offered herself as a witness to the latest case had suddenly attacked him from the flowerbeds in her garden, smearing his suit and face with soil. 

He turned away the offer of a hanky from Constable Patterson (she'd looked as if she wanted to swab him down with it) and ignored Constable Sweeney's attempts not to snigger at him. With a gaggle of witnesses still to interview and forensics staff asking for clarification on different matters, there was no way he could leave to shower or change for at least two more hours. At least Sally hadn't tried to snap his picture with her phone -- he blinked at the flash, because of course she'd just gone and done it. 

It was going to be a long night. 

"Because you're wrong!" Sherlock's distinctive baritone thundered through from the next room. Greg grimaced. It was bad enough Sherlock always looked elegant and stylish, but of course he couldn't resist commenting on the state of everyone else's clothing and announcing what he could deduce from the smallest of marks or stains. Greg turned to the doorway and braced himself for the onslaught.

"If you must allow Anderson to work on critical projects, at least -- oh." Sherlock stood stock still, his eyes darting over Greg.

"Come on, let's have it," Greg barked.

"Oh." Sherlock repeated. He cleared his throat. "I was just -- Anderson --" He gestured at the room from which he'd come and let his hand fall to his side.

"I don't know how you shut him up, but maybe you could do it every time he comes round?" Sally whispered a moment later on her way past them.

* * *

Usually Sherlock's pronouncements came rapid-fire, to the point where Greg would have to stop him and make him repeat details. But Greg realized when he finally got home that Sherlock's stilted observations the night before (complete with the oddest pauses in which Sherlock would almost obstinately look away from Greg at nothing in particular) had held him up at the scene nearly as much as quizzing the last few witnesses had. 

At least he had the next morning off, while forensics ran their tests and Sally phoned leads. He woke up feeling oddly refreshed, probably because of the extensive shower he'd taken the night before. For the first time in quite a while he decided to go for a jog, and pulled out his exercise clothes. 

After rounding the five-kilometer mark at the park near his flat, Greg pulled off the path to stretch, groaning at how sore his muscles felt. 

"About last night," a voice said suddenly.

"Christ Almighty, Sherlock!" Greg panted, his hand over his heart. "The bloody hell are you doing here?"

"I thought -- I realized that --" Sherlock's expression went from resolute to looking absolutely flummoxed. 

"You all right?" Greg straightened and touched Sherlock's arm. It wouldn't be the first time he'd seen Sherlock have a bit of a swoon after forgetting to eat for days. This incident seemed particularly worrisome, though; even the occasion he'd fainted dead away from hunger, he'd been chattering about the investigation at full-speed up until the moment he'd lost consciousness.

"I'm fine." Sherlock looked away with such intensity that Greg found himself following his gaze, to see if he'd spotted something important. But no, it was just a wide patch of freshly-mown grass and a few empty benches. 

"Text me then, yeah?" Greg said at last after he'd waited a few moments and Sherlock had continued to be at a loss for words. "I'd stay longer, only, you know, sweaty." He waved and turned to reverse his path. 

Almost a kilometer later, with a clear view to where he'd encountered Sherlock, he turned briefly to see Sherlock still standing there as if he'd been turned to stone.

"Odd bloke, but I knew that already," Greg muttered to himself as he finished his run.

* * *

It was two days later, the Case of the Galled Gardener (as John would call it later) fully resolved on the Yard's end, that Greg returned from lunch to find Sherlock waiting resolutely in his office. 

"Lestrade, I want you to hand over details of the cases Gregson and Dimmock have on," he began in his usual strident tones. 

"Give us a minute, would you?" Greg cut him off as he hurried behind his desk. He'd been caught in a downpour without an umbrella on the way back from Pret; he was sure he'd left an old t-shirt somewhere in a drawer he could at least use to towel his face dry. 

"And the answer is no," he replied when he'd at last located the garment and wiped the raindrops from his skin. There wasn't much he could do about his suit at the moment, but it was a start. 

Sherlock stared. His eyes darted to Greg's rumpled suit jacket, the damp trousers, his ruddy face. Then the oddest thing of all the odd things in the past few days occurred -- Sherlock blushed. 

"You okay?" Greg asked. He sometimes felt adrift when Sherlock was on a verbal rampage, biting out solutions to complicated crimes in one breath and castigating Greg's team in the next. But these strange silences Sherlock had been having around him lately were completely confusing. 

The vicious scowl Sherlock turned on the ceiling a moment later was a sight to behold. "If you could maintain greater professionalism in your demeanor and attire, I would be able to work much more efficiently." 

"Hang on." Greg walked round the desk and leaned against it (Sherlock immediately shifted his gaze to the wall on the other side of the room). "Are you saying I'm _distracting_ you? Because I'm filthy or sweaty or --" and here he plucked at his suit jacket " -- wet?"

Sherlock leapt to his feet and stomped out of the office without answering.

"What'd he want?" Sally asked from the doorway. 

Greg sighed. "Dunno, really."

"Nice suit," she offered as she departed.

"Some people seem to think so!" he called after her.


	15. Tender (Lestrade/John, PG-13)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the prompt "Lestrade getting hurt and Sherlock or John having to take care of them (in both of their grouchy ways)." I picked John, so we end up with pre-slash Johnstrade at 456 words.

"It's only a strain," Greg protested, trying to yank his foot out of John's hold.

John gave him a sharp look from where he'd knelt in front of him. "Oh, I'm sorry. Didn't recognize you from Bart's. Must have been you were a few years ahead of me. But go ahead and share your professional opinion on your ankle, by all means."

Greg tried not to cringe where he was sat on his desk.

"He hurt it three days back, and he stumbled on it again just last night," Sally commented. She leaned against the doorway. "I told him he shouldn't be on it, but he insisted."

"No one's interested, Donovan," Greg snapped. She shrugged and moved away.

"I'm interested, actually." John cradled Greg's ankle with care, turning it slightly this way and that before propping Greg's foot on his thigh. He'd slipped off the shoe earlier, making Greg glad at least he'd worn socks this morning without holes in. 

"Doubt it's a break," John continued, thumbing over the skin and bone in assessment. "I'd hate to run the x-rays without more evidence of swelling than this. Has the paracetamol helped any?"

Greg mumbled the answer, looking away.

"What was that?" 

"I said, I haven't taken anything for it," Greg repeated in a louder tone. 

He didn't know why he felt jumpy about the matter. Sherlock had already swept out of the office, pronouncing the situation tedious as soon as John first quizzed Greg about his limp. It was only John. And John obviously saw patients in all sorts of situations; his calm manner and careful touch most likely set loads of people at ease.

Greg had no idea why it made him so unaccountably nervous to have John stroke his fingertips over Greg's ankle bone and hum inquisitively to himself. 

"Right, here's my official diagnosis. Greg, you may be a fine Detective Inspector, but you're absolute shit at taking care of yourself." 

When Greg began to protest, John snorted. "It's not a matter for discussion. You're going home -- I'm driving, no arguments." Somehow John already had Greg's keys in his hand. "Then I'm going to buy a proper ankle support for you. Oh, and paracetamol, because no doubt you don't bother to stock it at your flat. Then we'll elevate your ankle with ice on for twenty minutes, off for forty. 

"But I've cases," Greg protested. "Paperwork! And besides, I can take care of myself."

John's hard look told Greg exactly how little he thought of those excuses. 

Greg tried for another objection, he really did. But when John hefted Greg's arm around his surprisingly broad shoulders and supported him out the building, what was Greg supposed to do, not follow after his doctor?


	16. Drink Your Cofftea  (Sherlock/John + Hamish, G)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written for the prompt “cofftea (as in when someone’s mixed the two)." How could the results not be kid!fic? Johnlock with a special appearance by Hamish, G, 696 words.

When Sherlock sensed someone sliding a mug toward his hand he didn't bother looking up from his microscope. 

Though he'd been at his research throughout the night, even in his focused state he'd noted the sunrise an hour and fifteen minutes earlier. And just ten minutes ago, the shuffling sounds indicating John going through his typical morning routine had begun. Obviously this was John bringing him his tea.

Then he caught the faint scent of a small boy who had within the last thirty-six hours thrown himself bodily into the lake at Regent's Park (a smell which two subsequent baths had failed to eradicate entirely). 

He frowned and turned to look down at the four-year-old child with wildly mussed short blond hair watching him impatiently with narrowed blue eyes. One grubby little finger reached out to nudge the mug closer to Sherlock.

"It's for you. Drink it," the piping voice demanded. 

"You were supposed to go to your mother's last night," Sherlock replied. He didn't keep track of such things normally, but then John had recently put up a large calendar, and the schedule was hard to miss.

Small shoulders shrugged. "Didn't." 

"Why ever not?"

The boy twisted his mouth up on one side as he tried to remember. "She went to Devon."

Sherlock gave the mug a dubious glance before asking, "Does your father know you're here?"

"Course he does!" The tiny face screwed up with indignation at this grave failure of understanding.

"He didn't tell me."

There was no sound so annoying, Sherlock reflected, as a child snorting contemptuously. "Probably did."

Which, to be fair, John probably had, and Sherlock had been too occupied with his tasks to take note of the information. 

"Come on now," Hamish said, employing the wheedling tone his father used to get him to eat sprouts. "Drink your cofftea and you'll feel much better."

"It's coff-ee," Sherlock enunciated.

"Isn't."

"Yes it -- look, I won't have this discussion with someone who doesn't even know his letters yet."

"I know them! I know all the way up through K. Anyway, it's not coffee, it's cofftea."

Sherlock kept his eyes on Hamish as he raised the mug to his nose and took a cautious sniff. "What are you talking about?"

"It's all the smell of coffee, and all the flavor of tea!" Hamish announced triumphantly. Then he looked at Sherlock, his blue eyes wide. "Aren't you going to try it?"

"How did you --" Sherlock stopped himself from asking further, not actually wanting to know how Hamish had found the components for his mixture. Most likely he'd combined the contents from mugs waiting for someone to finally do the washing up. He'd taken to mingling the strangest substances lately, which John claimed was an imitation of Sherlock's experiments, and which Sherlock claimed was ridiculous and tiresome. 

It would be just then that John would come in, yawning and still wearing the dressing gown Sherlock liked best on him, the dark green one. "Morning," he muttered, fluffing Hamish's hair and brushing a kiss on Sherlock's cheek before making his way over to the kettle.

Hamish made a beeline for his father, tugging on his dressing gown. "Sherlock won't drink his cofftea." 

"Perhaps he doesn't want it."

"I don't want plenty of things, and you make me have them anyway," Hamish reasoned.

"Yes, but Sherlock's an adult. He gets to do what he likes."

Hamish cast a dubious look Sherlock's way. "But cofftea is good for him."

"It's pronounced coffee, love," John said affectionately as Hamish leaned against his leg.

"Isn't," Hamish replied belligerently. "It's all the smell of coffee--"

"And all the flavor of tea," Sherlock finished just to get it over with. 

The grin Hamish sent his way, however, told him his participation had been judged in a manner he'd not intended.

"What are you two on about?" John looked amused as he darted his gaze back and forth between them.

Hamish's small face turned up to watch Sherlock, expectant and hopeful.

Sherlock sighed, picking up the mug and taking a sip of the wretched tasting drink. "Nothing at all," he croaked even as Hamish beamed at him.


	17. An Unexpected Meeting (Sherlock/John, PG)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the prompt "Bohemia" (though I took the liberty of tweaking that to "Bohemian"). This is meant to be set in the 1890s. Please forgive any anachronisms in speech or details. Johnlock, first meeting, AU, historical!fic, 1,126 words.

"He calls himself a detective, but he's only a Bohemian who likes to put on airs," one woman in the small clutch of people next to John confided to the group. She gave a protective tug to the string of pearls around her neck when she uttered the words, as though ensuring their safety from any manner of unsavory _artistes_. 

"Who is it they speak of?" John Watson asked his friend Stamford in an undertone.

"Oh, they're gossiping about Sherlock Holmes. The tall man in the corner who looks like a poet, do you see?" Stamford took a sip of his whiskey and gestured with his glass at the lanky man standing apart from the others. 

Holmes's richly textured suit had a more rakish cut than any of the others men at the gathering wore, and his cravat was the sort that the shops John frequented would cast out in well-bred horror before ever offering their like to their sedate customers. 

"Bit different from the crowd we usually see at Sarah's," John offered. Those around him were middling class professionals like himself, or perhaps minor government officials. The man across the room looked rather like an artist who called a garret his home. 

John cleared his throat, for when he had glanced over to the man in question he'd at first been unobserved. But now his attentions were noticed. He was caught immediately by the gaze of those eerily bright blue-green eyes. Holmes at first regarded him coolly but a moment later the right side of his mouth quirked up, signaling amusement. 

"I'll introduce you if you like," Stamford went on. "I've had the pleasure of meeting his brother through the duties of my post at St. Bartholomew's -- his post is with the Exchequer, you know. He's nothing like the younger Holmes, however, whose tastes are said to be quite radical."

"Oh, no, you needn't --" John said hastily. 

But Stamford had already begun to weave through the crowd toward this Holmes, and as John didn't know many of the other guests at Sarah's little party that night, he felt helpless to do anything but follow. 

As he approached where Stamford was now speaking amiably to Holmes, John looked up to see Holmes's attention was wholly on him: scanning his clothing, regarding his face and head as a phrenologist might, and finally sweeping his gaze over John's person in such a way that made John feel uncomfortably as though he were stood in only his undergarments. 

"Watson, this is Holmes," Stamford began heartily. Holmes's eyes snapped to John's, and John unaccountably felt himself flush hot from the stare. 

Just then a boy in dirtied clothing slipped into the room. He ignored the scandalized gasps of the few guests who had spotted him, instead heading directly for Holmes. 

"Ah, yes, Dixon," Holmes pronounced when he saw the boy, apparently not only not discomfited by his appearance but greeting him as he would an old friend. "Have you anything for me?" 

The newcomer said nothing, merely handing Holmes a bit of folded paper. With a single nod, he turned and made his way out again.

"A case," Holmes said to Stamford, obviously expecting him to know what this signified. "If you'll excuse me."

He thrust his way through the bustle of people in the room without compunction, and John could only gape at the indignant wake he left in his path.

"He's always like that," Stamford said merrily when John turned to him, the question on his lips. "He helps the police in their duties, apparently, when they're confounded by the more devious of criminals. I was surprised to see him here tonight; he doesn't typically frequent staid events like this one."

"No, I would suppose not," John murmured. He couldn't help but keep his eyes fixed on the threshold Holmes had just crossed; he felt as though he had been on a small skiff in calm waters, suddenly rocked by the appearance of some striking creature that had broken the tranquil surface without scruple, sending the sea into rocky waves. 

Stamford kept at his side genially for a few moments, but when John offered nothing more in the way of conversation, made polite excuses and took himself off to speak to someone else.

John swallowed and looked round, prepared to find his hostess and bid her goodnight so that he might leave the stuffy rooms filled with prattling company. Though he'd barely spoken to Holmes, he felt unsettled by him. A walk in the cool night air would do him much good. 

He'd only just begun to make his way down the stairs when pounding footsteps reached his ears. He halted and then started when he realized that Holmes was climbing the steps back up to the flat. 

Holmes halted a few steps below John. "Watson, was it?"

John swallowed. "Yes."

"The note has called me to the scene of a crime. Scotland Yard has engaged me on a case that looks to be a series of murders."

"I see," John said helplessly. This sort of conversation was worlds away from the type of exchanges he usually had: comforting words for his patients with their aches and sniffles, mild banter at social gatherings like the one he'd attended tonight.

"I may have need for a doctor and army man," Holmes went on. He slid his hand up the banister railing toward John, and John couldn't help but notice his fine-boned wrist, his long elegant fingers. "Will you come?"

"How did you know --" John began to ask, startled. Stamford hadn't had the time to make proper introductions, and not enough people at the party knew John for talk of his training and background to have reached Holmes already. 

A small smile played on Holmes's face. "I have a cab engaged just outside; I'll tell you all about it as we go."

"Right." John shook himself and took one step down the stairs, then another, leaving him standing just above Holmes, almost eye-to-eye despite Holmes's taller stature. "Murder, did you say?"

"Yes." Holmes now grinned in apparently excitement. John faintly reflected his mother would have called such an expression, in the context of such terrible goings-on, quite indecent. "Will you come?" Holmes repeated. 

"Yes." A thrum of excitement worked through his body as he acquiesced, and John grasped the railing to steady himself. His fingertips brushed Holmes's, and it was as though a spark traveled from the other man along John's skin like the quick touch of an ember that woke him from a sleepy doze by a grated fire. 

They descended the stairs together, and John followed Holmes to the cab, feeling as if he was about to depart for an entirely new world.


	18. Ready (Sherlock/John, R)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the request “Johnlock-John is fatally injured." Talk of major character death, drabble (100 words exactly).

When John dies, it's a gunshot to his gut, doubling him over, a shocked grimace on his face. However fast he runs, Sherlock is too late to catch John before he falls.

When John dies, it's a stab to his thigh, the artery hit by a panicked suspect. John bleeds out before the ambulance can arrive.

When John dies, it's an explosion that lights up the night sky amid screams from passersby.

"Ready?" John asks at the door, his face grim. 

Sherlock doesn't answer even as he brushes past John to head down the stairs first. 

He'll never be ready.


	19. Untying the Knots (Sherlock/John, PG-13)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the prompt "rope." Sherlock/John, references to case-related danger, 595 words.

After the police have stormed in to make their rescue, after John's been untied and Sherlock's huffed out as much of a statement he'll be giving that night at Lestrade, after the suspect's been dragged away yelling invectives, Sally pulls John aside.

"How come you were the only one tied up, then?" Her face is hard and serious as she watches John carefully. "When we sneaked in, it was the first thing I saw: you trussed up against the wall and Himself chatting with the murderer, as unfettered as you please."

John shrugs. "I'm supposed to make sense of how an insane killer decided to treat us after he hauled us to an abandoned warehouse?"

She shakes her head slowly. "Both of you should have been restrained with ropes. Why wasn't he? Unless --"

"Look, Sergeant Donovan, can we talk about this some other time? Maybe after I've actually eaten something after sixteen hours on no food, and put some ointment on these?" He flashes the rope burns on his wrists at her by way of bargaining chip.

It works. Her squared shoulders droop even though she rolls her eyes. "Don't think I'll have forgotten about this next time you see me," she warns him before she heads over to the constables securing the scene.

It takes fifteen minutes to put the emergency medical team off (they haven't been drugged this time, and they weren't unconscious at any point). It takes another twenty for the cab to bring them back to their flat. The entire time Sherlock stands or sits apart, brow furrowed and completely silent, looking resolutely away from John.

When they trudge up their stairs at last, John heads straight to the kitchen. He's not certain he can even choke down a cup of tea, but the process of making it will probably calm him a little. 

He's not heard a word from Sherlock since they entered, so he's definitely not prepared when he turns after clicking the kettle on to find Sherlock quite close and regarding him with that familiar intense stare. 

For a minute neither of them speaks.

"It's all right," John says gently.

Sherlock's chin goes stiff as he struggles to keep his expression composed. "Obviously when the murderer demanded I tie you up and acted as though I would necessarily contribute to his future crimes, I had to play along."

It's just as John thinks as well, so it's not hard to repeat the pertinent part. "Obviously." 

"He had guns, and explosives, and there was no way of telling how soon Lestrade would track us down."

"Sherlock, I get it."

"He would have made me kill you first!" Sherlock bursts out.

John takes in a deep breath. "Look, you don't have to say anything else. I'm not upset with you. You were doing what you needed to do to keep us alive, keep us _both_ alive. And I know you wouldn't have hurt me."

At that Sherlock presses his lips together tightly before heading to his armchair. But he doesn't shift as he does when he's restless; nor does he go still as when he's thinking deeply. Instead he slumps forward, elbows on his knees, and puts his head in his hands.

The kettle boils and clicks off.

John moves to stand quietly behind Sherlock, gently pulling him upright before encircling him with his arms.

Sherlock tightens his own arms over John's in response. When John exhales, Sherlock moves to lift first one and then the other of John's wrists to his lips, kissing the rope burns reverently.


	20. Aggressively Baking (Sherlock/Lestrade, G)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Here’s a silly little bit of Sherlock/Lestrade for thelittlepalecat because of her lovely drawings of Sherlock “aggressively baking” for Lestrade. :D 324 words.

Greg took the stairs to 221B two at a time when he saw the smoke curling down them.

"What the hell--" he started when he burst in only to find Sherlock looking imperturbable as he flapped a tea towel at a blackened heap on the counter. "Was it a bomb? Arson?"

"Victoria Sponge," Sherlock answered in distraction. He rubbed his thumb over his bottom lip and regarded the smoldering cake intently. "Too much leavening," he pronounced a moment later.

"I don't think that was the only problem," Greg muttered.

After twenty minutes of coughing and pleading, Sherlock finally consented to dump his cake in the bin outside. Only a promise of his pick of Greg's next three cases got him out the door and on the way to Greg's favorite Chinese place. 

"What were you doing, trying to make a cake anyway?" Greg asked over dumplings. He'd wheedled Sherlock into picking at two so far; even if he didn't touch the orange duck on its way, Greg counted the meal a success.

"It was for that commendation you're about to get, due to your work on the Miller case." Sherlock grasped his phone to text someone one-handed, and in his distraction didn't notice when Greg slipped him another dumpling. After discarding his mobile, he absently picked up the plump object with his chopsticks and ate. 

Greg leaned in and lowered his voice. "Okay, yeah, but -- how'd you know about that? It's not been announced to anyone. Hell, even I'm not supposed to know yet."

Sherlock merely scoffed before reaching over and taking Greg's half-eaten dumpling from his plate. "Never mind that. We can still celebrate properly later. I've found an intriguing recipe for a chocolate gateau."

"Intriguing?" Greg said weakly. That didn't sound promising.

"Oh, yes," Sherlock said with relish as he gestured to their waiter for another order of dumplings. "Hardly at all likely to explode. Still, we can always hope."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm trying to decide whether to continue slipping my tumblr ficlets into this current single work as chapters, or post some/all of them on AO3 as individual fics. If I end up choosing the latter option, I'll probably link them in a series so that anyone interested in them as a group can see them listed on a single page/find them linked that way. Any input on that decision is welcome! And as always, comments and kudos are adored. <3


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